


mourning star.

by caesuraes



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Ignis Scientia Whump, Ignis Scientia-centric, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Survivor Guilt, World of Ruin (Final Fantasy), World of Ruin Big Bang (Final Fantasy XV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:41:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29548758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caesuraes/pseuds/caesuraes
Summary: When Noctis made his sacrifice, Ignis stumbled over it should've been me’s and it was all my fault’s, just as he encountered another thousand reasons to hope. There was no light to discover salvation in, but instead many of them, with tiny chances of joy bubbling at the reach of one’s hand.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Ignis Scientia, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10
Collections: World of Ruin Big Bang





	mourning star.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the World of Ruin Mini Bang, ran by the amazing [audreyskdramablog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreyskdramablog/pseuds/audreyskdramablog) and [Crazyloststar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyloststar/pseuds/Crazyloststar)! It was my first experience in a huge group project like this and, although I struggled a bit, I received nothing but love & patience from these absolute angels. I was paired with [Xhidaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xhidaka/pseuds/Xhidaka/), who blessed me (and you *wink wink*) with an astounding art piece. Make sure to give some love to everyone in this BB!

Ignis dragged his body, full of open wounds, through the mud –– he could not hear a thing. The monsters had perished, but it would not take long for them to return. He had no time, he had no backup. Not for the first time, he felt young and foolish, although old age had already clawed his heels raw. He encountered shelter, although it would prove of little resistance if luck was not on his side for the evening. Ignis couldn’t bother with possibilities as he laid down on the cold floor, all aching bones and sore muscles, never entirely sure where (and  _ if _ ) the limits of day and night even stood. 

Ignis was well acquainted with the dark, years before his blindness, years before he lost his prince. He’d dare say there wasn’t a time it did not live within himself — there was no other feeling as present as the suffocating emptiness, the unbearable lightness of being nothing. Not for the first time, he felt young and foolish. There was no food in his body, but nausea built itself slowly, clogging up his throat. Dirty fingernails started digging soon after, lean arms their first target — such small amounts of pain were never sufficient for the fog inside his skull to dissipate, but it was all he could manage, drained of all strength.

_ Let me disappear _ , he whispered, open-eyed and still unseeing, knowing the void wouldn’t bother to answer. And so, he’d sink himself further into despair, as if he was a child finally succumbing to the weight of existence. He didn’t have the decency to pretend it was the first time, to act surprised upon realizing the extent of his weakness. Ignis tore himself apart with a solemn expression, dignified in one more fall, his skin nothing but a sheet of discarded paper when it split and bled. 

He did not sleep, midnight marked on the clock of his body, orbs glistening silver as marred lips trembled another prayer. Ignis never admitted to being terrified, except for that quiet whimper crushed out by his teeth. The world had forgotten him, and, and,  _ and _ — he hoped to become a myth, a false memory, a whisper.  _ No more _ , as his bones became stardust, as his heart found peace.  _ No more _ , he begged, the flames burning low, lower, lowest. There was no warmth in his own skin, no matter how tightly he coiled around himself.

There was no uttering of an apology as he drifted off — to sleep, to death, to the darkness that was one within himself.

* * *

Surrendering was a nightmare with a grip of ice, cold hands forcing him to stare at the most unsettling of sculptures. A mirror, thousands of them, unforgiving eyes burning against Ignis’ skin — the blooming scar still rested upon his face, crackling as fire would, but he was able to observe his own haze, opaque colours rendering him ill. His body was mere dead weight, limbs no more than ghosts, and he was chained to his own memories, unable to look away. 

First, there was his family. One heavy blur, even in the caverns of his own mind. He didn’t have a memory to attach to such feelings — only scars told these stories. He remembered the lack of comforting touches, and raised voices, and shattering glass. He remembered being locked in a small room, shedding silent tears, and the cold. Always stuck in oblivion, a somber violin singing next door, a funeral with no corpse. A burden still sore, aching quietly so many years forward. That was all he was, despite his namesake: a never-ending rain, pouring until nothing was left. Maybe that was what his mother meant when she called him pitiful.

There was no shortage of trying, from his end. He moved through life until his knees gave out, success flowing from his fingertips like melted gold, scorching, and it was never enough.  _ It still isn’t _ . It felt right to hurt — to refuse happiness, to turn away from any light that remained. Much like everyone else, his liege did not ask any questions, not even when he caught a glimpse of the numerous scars resting in Ignis’ palms, wrists, arms. But Noctis would offer his small embrace, and then order his Advisor to stay longer and sing him to sleep — the only light Ignis had ever known. Much more than a job, the prince was the keeper of whatever was left from Ignis’ heart. 

Love was a small blessing, and yet the horrors of solitude were inescapable. He had hope when the sun was up, foolish faith swelling up in his chest as he promised all would be different from the mirror, to the self. His heart grew like a thousand roses in an open field, so much it could tear his rib cage apart: an addict who never learned, a victim of his own volition. With the death of the day, silence would fill his every pore, so loud it was deafening. The fall was always worse than it had been previously, and the emptiness made it echo. New wounds were carved on his skin as the stars ruptured the shadows of the skies. Blood was spilt, and nothing more. 

Ignis repressed tears for most of his life, as he did with most vulnerabilities. They were a luxury he could not afford, in the name of his own sanity. He knew once he allowed himself to shatter, he’d never recover. Numbness reached his veins eventually, making a home out of hollowed hopes and tender bones — voices became white noise as he delved into work, as he ignored the unpleasant whispers that followed his every step inside the Citadel's limits, as his life became whole only as he intertwined his beating heart to duty. Nothing burned inside of the mausoleum he called his body: there was a sole matchstick, barely alive — it was bound to fade, just like he was. Ignis hoped no one would notice as he kept on moving, his head throbbing with each new can of coffee consumed. Enduring pain was his only ability, and he would always do so quietly if it meant the success of his prince.

Ignis moved with ease, the anvil of responsibilities never once causing him to break. The councilmen sneered behind his back (wasn’t he still a child? wasn’t he doing his best?) and Ignis’ posture remained unflinching, young and tall and so utterly exhausted. Reaching his uncle’s house by the end of his shift only meant more solitude, and he drowned on countless papers, searching for a reason to keep on breathing.  _ If only he could be useful _ . Was this not his purpose? Was he anything but a vessel, valuable not by his name, but by his servitude? 

It didn’t take long for eye-bags to darken his fair skin, but Ignis refused to bend under hardship. His mouth remained shut, no pleas for help to be heard — but there were cracks beyond the wounds in his body, a flower not even encountering its first bloom before it wilted. Gladiolus would sometimes stare at him for long minutes, without saying anything at all — and Ignis would find himself fidgeting under the weight of his unflinching gaze, the curse of being seen tasting of copper on his tongue.  _ Think nothing of it _ . But there would always be food waiting for him on his desk, the same type of nutritional bars the Shield would carry around in his back pocket.  _ Think nothing of it _ .

Ignis can still remember the hours in which his mind seemed to drift away from his skull — no more than a teenager with a weakened support system, his fall from grace was bound to happen. A collapse awaited him, heartstrings trembling, and soon, the entirety of who he was started shaking — each layer of his skin coming undone, shredding. The only sound that it provoked was a choked sob, his throat clinging to it. The silent shaking of his shoulders lasted far too long, if not consuming the entirety of that evening. His tongue was dead, his limbs felt dark, his cheeks were now rivers. And,  _ oh _ . When spiders crept up his neck, pressing, possessing— he had become no more than broken glass. There was no point in resisting the urges that crawled from the darkest of corners. It was empty, and it was pain. Sometimes, it was both (sometimes, it became too much).

Adulthood eased into his bones, for he had never been a child. To play pretend, that he could do: no one asked any questions about Ignis. He could hold on his own, couldn’t he? Sturdy, reliable, upright –– there were no qualms over his well-being, no tender hands over his shoulders. Gladiolus warmed up to him, but he had no other friends. It was  _ fine _ . Noctis had always been enough –– being useful to their Crown Prince should be enough. And yet, sweat would always pool down his neck, a bottomless pit on his stomach howling as the night engulfed his tired body. Gladio tended to gaze at him still as if he wanted to say something –– Ignis wanted nothing more than to order him to stop, for being known would be the harshest of offences. He wouldn’t open his mouth, however, and the Shield would always linger by his side.

It was difficult to drive Gladiolus away, although Ignis did try. He couldn’t truly understand why the older man was so insistent on bonding activities. Wasn’t it enough that they worked well together? Wasn’t it enough that they loved and cared for Noctis? Gladio said a sharp  _ no _ alongside a booming laughter Ignis could never forget, and, soon enough, their training sessions expanded to mindless outings –– a concept of fun Ignis had no prior knowledge of, and he would never admit to how much he valued the laughter spilt over dinning and the secret adventures shared after the sun settled itself beyond the valley. Even Iris took a liking to him, although the advisor could never be sure if her perpetual requests for him to stay overnight were genuine, as Gladio seemed to inspect her phrases closely every time. Ignis did not comprehend it, but he  _ enjoyed  _ it. To have a warm home, and a full table as he ate, and to hear numerous tales before heading to bed. It was all pleasant enough, but Ignis only grasped the meaning of it all once the heir of the Amicitia’s kissed him on the lips for the first time –– it was the closest Ignis had ever been to another, in body and spirit. He made sure to cherish the feeling for as long as he could.

Those were his golden years –– brisk like a summer breeze, just enough to empty his lungs of the saltwater that had drowned him for so long. The trip to Altissia seemed to be a highlight of it. It was a sign of settlement. His boy was grown, and the future was bright. Gladiolus still held his hand when he thought no one was paying them no mind, and Ignis smiled often. There were many days in which he had to be alone, still –– he was guilty of isolation and of overworking, but he was also taken care of. It was almost easy, at times, to flourish under the right attention. Ignis found happiness, stranger as it was to him. 

It was all good until it wasn’t. Such an immeasurable crisis warranted preparations none could have completed. As always, Ignis managed. He tried to tell himself it was enough for all of them to get through it unscathed –– but, as he fell into a slumber, the knowledge of a bitter ending neared his soul, a weight impossible to lift. None of them could be protected, none could be spared. As their voyage expanded, tossed and turned, Ignis could feel his light flickering, even as he observed Noctis sleeping soundly, even as Gladiolus kissed the nape of his neck. Where would this path lead them to?

Where was it going to end?

* * *

The sun did not rise, but Ignis did –– it took him time to account for his surroundings. Firstly, he was not dead. His wounds were bandaged. He was no longer in an abandoned shed in the middle of nowhere, for there was no foul smell of mold and decaying wood. Still, there was an eerie silence hanging above his head, and it could mean no good. With trembling fingers, he massaged his temples, a silent sigh escaping his lips. Noctis was still lost inside the crystal. He was still blinded, nearing the realm of the dead more than of the living. Ignis mentally annotated the benefits of speaking up, for safety could be such a fickle thing in the World of Ruins –– even if he desired to do so, however, he could not: he was paralyzed by the torture of remembering his protegé’s dark, dark eyes, the soft perfume of innocence filling his lungs all at once, and Ignis was only capable of wishing to be near him, to take his place, to find rest in no longer breathing. If the gods wanted sacrifice, Ignis had always been willing to give everything.

–– You’re awake. –– it was Gladio’s voice that resonated within his core, and the blond couldn’t help but be startled, finally nearing reality more than his own dangerous whims. Ignis couldn’t see him –– there was no way to account for his expression, and yet, he dared to do so. His tone was a ravine, meandering one too many emotions, and Ignis knew the man well enough to draw a picture of the hardened edges of his face to perfection. Before he could utter a word, a warm mug was pressed against the palm of his hands ––  _ coffee _ .

Ignis wanted to laugh: he had been the one to run away from their home, insistent on battling an unforgiving world on his own, almost getting himself killed in the process, and Gladiolus was the one to hold out a symbol of peace, offering him his favourite beverage with the most solemn of movements, as if doing his best to steady a shaken Ignis. Of course, the Advisor still recalled their fight well enough –– he needed to be at his peak for Noctis’ return, while Gladio felt it was perfectly sensible to keep him locked away, useless and sheltered, as he dared insert himself in the most abhorrent of situations. It needed to be discussed and, most of all, solved. And yet, at this present moment, Ignis wanted nothing more than to ask for forgiveness.

–– How did you find me? –– he started, words coming out slowly as he sipped his coffee.

––  _ You’re welcome _ , Iggy. –– was the immediate response, lacking in sharpness albeit its sarcastic nature. Then, a sigh. –– I know I was harsh, and I know that I said a lot of stupid shit, but it didn’t take me too long to be worried instead of angry. So I ran after ya. Quite an unhealthy habit of mine, that is.

Ignis couldn’t help the bloom of a smile on scarred lips, inching his body closer to the Shield’s. Comfort was needed, for both of them –– and, oh, there was so little of it in this world. –– I apologize for leaving. –– he muttered, a kiss pressed to Gladio’s shoulder. –– It was a rash decision. 

–– A stupid one.

–– Perhaps. But I do need to fight, and you know it. –– there was another moment of quietness stretching above them, not entirely peaceful, but warm. Ignis realized the strong aroma of pressed beans and cologne felt much like home, and it soothed him, somehow. –– What shall I do, if you are the one in need of rescuing? –– he pressed further, but his words had no poignant syllables. Ignis was a loving man, even if weak in spirit, each word sewn together with tender logic.

–– I’m scared. –– Gladio admitted, an unusual whisper coming out of his mouth, half smothered. –– I’m scared to lose one more. And I’m even more scared if this  _ one more _ comes to be you. –– his larger hand covered Ignis’, and the blond came closer. –– I’m scared you’ll get killed. –– his words come out heavy, each a different punch landing in his guts. –– I’m terrified you’re  _ trying  _ to get yourself killed.

There was nothing he could say to that, for his mouth hung agape, and his heart became still. He wanted to be useful. He wanted to be good enough. If he didn’t succeed –– Death ought to be a fair result, and it was probably much more dignified than what he deserved. But Gladiolus had never understood these wishes: it had often been another reason for his longing gaze, lingering touches, unsaid truths. This was their path, a narrow, claustrophobic street with no exits. There was still bursting and rampant aching, yearning. Ignis’ fingers held Gladio’s with merciless strength, searching for the assurance of his presence. — Don’t leave. — Gladiolus murmured, forehead touching Ignis’ feverish skin.

This love was a new scar, a constellation glistening within the slickness of their blood. It was one welcome company as he cut himself apart in hopes of becoming anew, holding Gladio in the most tender of violent ways. They did not shed tears as their bodies became entangled on one another, the weight of grief and loss and bitterness washing over them as a storm would, but the inaudible opening of heart against heart bore a stronger meaning. Hours came and went, having no grasp over the sliver of blissful reality they both shared. 

Ignis was the first to let go, although he held no strong desire to do so –– but his limbs still ached, and Gladiolus was quick to carry him to the small, old tub in their cramped, tiny bathroom. It was at home. It was something worth living for, mayhaps. He couldn’t speak the thought into the universe, for he was too afraid of becoming more attached to a life that had shown itself too sour, time and time again. This, he had never admitted to Gladio. It was hard to unlearn sadness, once it became a part of you. 

The Shield hummed as he poured warm water over the tub, and Ignis tried to entertain his own mind with a child-like fit of daydreaming. He could not see Gladio’s new scars, but he had memorized their locations with time –– and he could draw them out in the darkness, just as well as he could picture his long hair, slowly growing down his shoulders. Ignis could imagine and remember, and whatever version of Gladiolus came up remained beloved in his heart.  _ Isn’t this just silly? _ , he thought, as Gladio undressed him with unbearable gentleness. Wasn’t it so foolish, to be adored amidst ruins? Wasn’t it still worth it? Wasn’t Ignis still so glad to endure it? 

Gladiolus carried him, bridal style, into the tub –– Ignis would’ve fought it if it was any other moment. Now, he caught himself smiling over their proximity as if it was a novelty to him. The hot temperature did wonders to Ignis’ muscles, even if he had no space to properly stretch them –– Gladio had settled against his back, occupying a huge portion of the available room, but Ignis preferred it. To be crowded by Gladio’s arms meant he was no longer alone, no matter how hard he tried to be. It was surely too much to ask of another, but he was still glad his long-time boyfriend didn’t seem to mind the hard work. Unexpectedly, Ignis found his voice, laying down against Gladio’s chest and still imagining something far beyond the ruins. There must be a light to look forward to, he thought, not sure he would be understood by any. –– I am glad to be alive in this world, even if it is no good. –– he caressed the flimsy hairs of Gladio’s arms, a lazy smile finding its way across his lips. For once, the desire to succumb could not be found on any inch of his soul. Ignis imagined the earthy hues of his lover’s skin and felt it was right to keep his heart set on beating. –– I won’t leave. I won’t. –– and it was a promise not to be broken.

* * *

When Noctis made his sacrifice, Ignis stumbled over  _ it should've been me _ ’s and _ it was all my fault _ ’s, just as he encountered another thousand reasons to hope. There was no light to discover salvation in, but instead many of them, with tiny chances of joy bubbling at the reach of one’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Even after spending so much time with this, I'm not sure I'm satisfied with it. However, it started as a very personal writing dump regarding my own struggles with chronic depression (and, since Ignis is my comfort character... well!), and I wanted to share it with you all nonetheless, even if it might be a bit hard to relate to or even enjoy. Either way, I hope you all enjoyed this little journey! I'd love to hear your thoughts!


End file.
